The roads of Gehenna, once silent under the shadow of the Abyss, were now vibrant with life. Stalls returned to the marketplaces, children ran without fear, and the air no longer carried the scent of funeral incense or dried blood. For the first time in decades, Gehenna was at peace.
Two figures strolled side by side through one of its newly bustling districts, where fresh stone covered old ruins and laughter filled the alleys.
"The city's sure lively these days," said Garron, hands resting on his belt as he watched a group of teens balancing on overturned crates.
"It's the end of that hellhole," Briar replied, brushing a strand of silver hair from her eyes. Her hands were calloused and still smelled faintly of forge oil. "No more mourning, no more training or skirmishes at the rift. People are remembering how to live."
Garron exhaled through his nose. "Makes me wonder what I'll do now."
Briar smirked, bumping her shoulder against his. "You've been doing me just fine for some time now."
Garron coughed, caught between a laugh and a scowl. "I'm serious. I can't just sit at home, polishing weapons I don't need. Maybe I should learn house chores—help out with Tifny while you work in the smithy."
"And what about all that soldier pride?" she asked as they turned onto a quieter lane.
"I'm a father now." His tone turned solemn. "That's a position greater than a king's. Everything else comes second."
Briar raised an eyebrow as they stopped in front of their home. "You really are uptight about this."
As she unlocked the door, she paused, hearing a child's excited voice echo from within.
"Mother, look! This man is so cool!"
The couple's heads snapped up.
Standing before their front porch was a towering figure—tall enough to nearly brush the doorframe even with a slight hunch. Slender, with limbs that seemed just a touch too long to be human, and clad in pure-black armor etched with glowing crimson runes, the figure radiated an aura of both dread and awe.
Clawed gauntlets rested easily at its sides, and the faint shimmer of active mana circled its frame like smoke caught in moonlight.
Garron moved instantly. "Take her away!"
He drew his sword and lunged forward, fury flaring in his eyes.
But the armored figure didn't flinch. Instead, it raised one gauntleted hand and caught the blade mid-swing—effortlessly.
"Stop," the voice echoed, slightly distorted through the helmet's modulation. "It's me. Kalem."
Garron's muscles tensed. "That boy died fighting! Don't you dare sully his name."
The figure gently pushed Garron back, not violently, but firmly enough to put space between them. "I'm glad you think of me like that, but it really is me."
"Prove it." Garron's sword didn't waver. "Show me your face."
The armored man reached up with one clawed hand, and with a hiss of disengaging runes, lifted the helmet free.
Underneath, his face was pale, stretched a little thinner than before, with faint white scars etched like lightning across his jawline and forehead. His eyes, once a subdued steel-gray, now shimmered with faint gold—like sunlight filtered through broken glass.
Briar took a sharp breath.
Garron lowered his sword an inch. "...Kalem?"
Before anyone else could speak, a small blur darted forward.
"Are you a knight?" asked Tifny, eyes wide with awe. She stared up at the black armor with a kind of reverence children reserved for fairy tales and comic heroes.
Kalem blinked, then knelt so he was at her level, the motion smooth and without a creak from the armor.
"Not really," he said, offering a soft smile.
"You float things like Papa's magic trick," she added proudly.
Garron groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tifny, that was one time—and it was just a mana torch trick."
Kalem chuckled. "Want to see a better one?"
She nodded furiously.
Kalem extended a hand, and with a twitch of his fingers, a handful of kitchen knives lifted from their sheathes and began to dance midair—swirling around in elegant, harmless arcs. The blades spun and weaved like ribbon dancers, catching the light as they twirled, before gently returning to his hand.
Then, with a shimmer of condensed aether, he conjured a small forge hammer in one hand and a compact sword in the other—scaled to Tifny's size.
"I brought a gift," he said, offering them to her.
Briar stared at the sword, not because it was sharp—it wasn't—but because the blade was folded in a unique pattern, the kind that only Kalem forged, with living mana veins dancing in its center.
"Wait—before we start crying or hugging you to death—how the hell did you find us?" Briar asked, glaring at him half-suspiciously.
Kalem scratched the back of his head. "I asked around."
"What?"
"You're both... kind of famous. Ex-soilder and a smith who stopped a mana quake? Took about an hour to get directions once I hit the capital."
Briar buried her face in her hands. "Spirits preserve us."
Kalem tilted his head. "Why do you two look like you're about to cry?"
"I am holding it in better," Briar said, jerking her thumb toward Garron, "but he's about to explode like a tea kettle."
Garron didn't speak. He just stepped forward and embraced Kalem in a crushing, one-armed hug, armor or no armor.
"Welcome home, idiot," he muttered, voice low and thick.
By evening, word had spread.
In every tavern, every guard post, and every merchant stall in Gehenna, the rumors were impossible to stop:
"The Abyss is dead."
"Its killer walks among us."
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Kalem just wanted to sit down and have tea.